


Dusk

by jukain



Series: pray greet her with a smile [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Au Ra Raen (Final Fantasy XIV), Au Ra Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Changing POV, F/M, Family, Fluff, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Second Person, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, dark knight msq, haurchefant lives at a price au, i didn't become a white mage to let my dude die
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-10-11 10:40:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17445350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jukain/pseuds/jukain
Summary: The lord blames himself for the demise of the Warrior of Light. Though she is quick to disagree, firm and unflinching in her conviction, the unrelenting weight of sadness that the Ishgardian knight holds upon his shoulders seeks to wear him down.a series of short stories exploring a bittersweet ending to the dragonsong war, and what came before it.DISCONTINUED





	1. family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you would do anything to ease their burdens.
> 
> retainer pov

"How come I don't got scales?" The little lady, Miss Arianne, demands with none-too-concealed indignance, her cheeks puffed and tinged pink. "Why does he get scales and I don't?!" Her voice rises into near shrieking volume and dread trickles down your spine at the thought of another potential outburst by the young elezen. The furniture had, quite frankly, suffered enough about as is.

Mistress Ejinn simply reaches out with her free hand, the other cradling her newborn to her breast, and teasingly pinches her daughter's pointed ear in between her thumb and fore finger. The girl squeaks in protest and makes a valiant attempt to bat her mother's hand away.

"Because then, love, you would not have ears! And surely you wouldn't be able to don those clasps your mother buys you at the market without ears, correct?" The au ra woman smiles at her eldest, whose face soon morphs to shock. Arianne slaps her small hands over her ears as though the appendages would soon fly off.

Crisis averted, you release a shaky exhale and pretend to continue your work on the Mistress' finances rather than eavesdropping upon her young family.

"I want my ears!" The girl exclaims in alarm, covering them still. "I need them!"

"Just as your brother needs his scales," Mistress replies gently, "as they'll protect him from harm, just as surely you'll protect him from any threats."

Puffing out her chest in pride, the little lady moves her hands to sit firmly at her sides. The telltale glint of steely determination in her gaze causes you to smile. Arianne was truly the defender of the household, however young she may still be.

"I'll protect him and mama! I can hear real good! Nothing can get past me!"

Mistress Ejinn laughs warmly instead of giving a true response, placing her free hand on her daughter's head, and ruffling the elezen's silver hair a little. The girl positively beams.

 

Yukio is everything is sister is not, and the two are so complete opposite of one another that often times you find yourself mind-boggled at their relation. The au ri boy shares his mother's scales and dark hair, and his father's clear, blue eyes. His elder sister's eyes are bright and fuchsia like their mother's, and her silver hair leaves no question to her parentage, otherwise.

Arianne is a firecracker of a girl, leading her brother by the hand everywhere they go, the younger taking to her shadow as if it were a second home. Yukio is subdued and passive in temperament, shying away from conflict, people, animals, some frightening plants, and most everything else. Ever the brave protector of the little people she is, the young lady steps up to her role as eldest with ease and does not make light of slights against her family.

Yukio's appearance and gentleness make him an easy target for particularly cruel jests by other children, as does his preference to withdraw into himself at any sign of danger. However, not even the wrath of a primal can compare to thus: the boiling desire for vengeance of a girl naught ten summers old.

Mistress Ejinn ends up using more healing magic than ever before, though cautiously within her limits, once her two children are old enough to wander Gridania in relative safely. At worst, the lad comes home teary-eyed but none worse for wear, his sister instead sporting various scrapes and bruises and sometimes a split lip.

Arianne takes to the art of war as though it were breathing, and enrolls as a lancer the moment she is grown enough to wield the weapon proper. The teasing against her little brother ceases near instantly after she begins to carry with her a training lance wherever she goes, though she knows to not brandish it outside of necessity and takes her teachings with utmost seriousness.

Yukio doesn't enjoy the thrill of a fight as his sister does, instead opting to read over his mother's books from her early conjurer days, though still far too young to cast magic safely. He is excited by the idea of following in the Warrior of Light's footsteps, and finds his own footing not long after Arianne begins to put her training into practice on the field. Though ever protective of her younger sibling, who is quickly matching her in physical height, she is endlessly proud and takes to flaunting about her brother's scholarly wits at every opportunity.

 

Having more time to herself and her tasks away from her children does Mistress Ejinn well, and you're more than happy to relay to Lord Haurchefant updates of her squadron and improving mood. On top of all of the letters and gifts you were also sent to deliver, which you do so with great enthusiasm.

You don't find anything about Ishgard you enjoy enough to stay more than is necessary, but you also take the time to meander around Camp Dragonhead and pester the Lord's staff for any gossip. He knows what you're up to, and you know he knows, but you shan't be denied the simpler pleasures of silly interpersonal drama where you can find it. The work of a retainer can be dull at times, and while you do love your charges and the Mistress and even the Lord, intensely so, you do have your own life to live.

You also met your other half during a scheduled visit to the frozen nation, as it so happens. A scruffy adventurer taking advantage of the birthing peace a thousand years in the making, and you, a simple miqo'te, out to find the strongest spirits you can as an impromptu gift to the Silver Fuller. But that's a story for another time.

You enjoy Lord Haurchefant's company, and you also enjoy taking the time to assure him that you're looking out for him too, regardless of his say in the matter. You know far more keenly than most others, those in question not withstanding, about how the Lord carries the burden of guilt from the events leading to the Warrior of Light's perpetual retirement. He needs not say it, as his actions and expressions speak volumes and you have always been a sharp listener. It is not your place to soothe him, and you do not interfere with his matters, but nevertheless you check on him as often as you can while in the area.

Mistress Ejinn thanks you once in the midst of tears, her shoulders trembling and face buried in her hands. You decide to toss decorum out the window and hold her, rubbing soothing circles into her back as she weeps. She blames herself for not being strong enough for her love, for his people. For being reckless and not nearly cautious enough and allowing him to come to harm.

The Lord blames himself for the demise of the Warrior of Light.

Their children know naught better and are protected from their parents' grief, showered in warmth and love so genuine it causes your heart to ache.

You are merely a retainer, a manservant, a friend. You cannot solve the problems these heroes bear so far out of your scope, but nevertheless you will endeavor to be a rock in their lives. A solid presence and anchor, doing what you can, and reaching out to both when they do not have the strength to do so themselves.

Tis the least you can do, for this family you love so dearly.


	2. open wounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an endless exchange of life and death.
> 
> wol pov

Up until recently, you had been able to keep the subject of your nightmares to yourself, and to the privacy of your quarters. Whether or not you woke up screaming, forgotten names heavy in your throat, was neither here nor there, and you would pointedly ignore concerned glances from any one of your comrades. They never asked and you rather preferred to keep it as such.

Since your initial visit to Ishgard, however, you hadn't been so fortunate to keep your wounds of war to yourself. Not when more often than not you found your bedmate slowly rocking you when you snapped awake, a hand stroking your hair back and holding you at the base of your neck, so unbelievably gentle as though you were made of glass. You would shake and heave breaths, clutching onto any part of Haurchefant within reach, your trembling hands gripping into his bare skin like claws.

He never asked, only listened. You loved him for that, among many other things.

 

Cheerful optimism would only reach so far at times, and when the both of you were weary from the events of a long day, feeling far too brittle, you would sit in a companionable silence to the audience of a crackling hearth. You'd lean on him, watching the fire and blinking away tears when you stared at its light for too long, but never daring to shut your eyes. You were afraid to find what old terrors lurked beneath your eyelids, depriving you of rest.

He must notice the glazed expression that slowly relaxes your features, hazes over your eyes. You aren't aware of Haurchefant at that time-- not with soldiers, adventurers, friends, running themselves into swords and lances and falling with splatters of blood at every direction you look. Where is your staff? Where is your group? Where--

You choke on the stench of boiling blood and oil and fold in on yourself. Screams batter at your horns, the vibrations making your stomach twist and knees buckle beneath you. The cries of death and agony surround and suffocate the air from your lungs and it's all you can do to hold your position even as Dalamud fragments overhead-- these are not your-- the sky ignites and aether saturates the air-- this is not your--

You inhale sharply and desperately when you are returned to your body once again, safely tucked into the present. Numbness prickles at your limbs and you blink rapidly against the dryness of your eyes. Haurchefant squeezes your hand in his, his other resting firmly at your lower back. The touches help to ground you and your mouth opens to voice your gratitude, but the words die on your tongue. The only fire, tamed and welcome, is coming from the hearth, and its warmth soothes your aching muscles and heart.

This is not the battlefield from your dreams, no, but the horrors will not cease to pick apart your consciousness regardless.

Haurchefant hums a nameless tune, something you don't recognize but appreciate for the soft rumble shared against your skin. You risk closing your eyes and tuck your face into the juncture of his shoulder and neck, breathing out shakily. He runs his fingers up and down your spine.

 

Death is a constant for you. You were forced to adjust quickly, while you were still young and so, so naive, lest you lose what remnants of sanity you scarce had left. Strangers and friends alike would fall at your feet while you could do naught but watch, your magic never potent enough to tear the cold talons of death from them. You could not restore life once it had ceased; once it had drained into the lifestream. It was not within your power, your rights, to do so.

And yet, when Haurchefant falls, his blood painting the stone underneath him from the force of his injury, you make the decision before you ever realize there was one. Your white magic is a reflex presence in your grasp and every ingrained caution from your padjal mentors shrieks protests in your head. You cast them all aside with fierce certainty and tear the aether from your surroundings, elementals be damned. You dig deep, deep into yourself and break through the limits of your core, erupting with primal lifeforce you are _more_ than prepared to give. You absolutely sing with healing magic that traces jagged lines up through your skin and burns like hellfire within your system.

It takes a fraction of a second for Haurchefant to pass the point of fatality, and it takes you just as quick to forsake everything you've ever learned. You meet his gaze as your spell reaches its peak, his eyes wide in alarm and fear, and rightfully so. He had been prepared to risk, to give, his life to protect you. You will not allow him to die. You refuse.

You clutch his hand in both of yours and bow your head, pressing your forehead to his knuckles, and unleash your swan song in the form of a single plea, a single word and prayer choked out in a torrent of grief:

" _Please!_ "

 

The Light within you fades and you feel your Mother's sorrow encompass what is left of your form in the lifestream. You are in pieces, struggling in vain to bring yourself together with only a fraction of the aether you once had. Tis a losing battle.

It doesn't hurt, you think, in fact it doesn't feel much like anything. Is this death? Is this the inevitable force that took all your loved ones from you?

Whispers coax you from... somewhere? A voice. Several voices. They sound of nonsense but are kind all the same. You think you could rest like this. Be at peace.

Your strength is diminishing, save for a lone thread still adamantly holding you in place. Pulled taut and strained but never once posing the possibility of fraying, weakening. It holds you with unyielding conviction, devotion, love-- and it takes you what may as well have been an eternity to realize the thread is not part of you.

Your senses flare back to life at that moment, the fight you had thought lone gone roaring in your chest and collecting your scattered shards and pooling them into solid shape. You scrabble for purchase in the void, your every thought screaming to live. To fight. _To fight._

You did not become a hero to allow your loved ones to die.

Your loved ones did not sacrifice so that you may perish in their stead.

You find your light and close your fingers around it in an iron grip and do not let go.

 

"Please."

The first word you hear is a painful mirror, but you won't notice the significance until later. Your eyes open on their own accord. You are impossibly weak and still not entirely secure in your physical body, but you are so beautifully, wonderfully alive. 

A sob, then grounding weight, pressure from strong limbs wrapping around you. You can hardly move, much less speak your proof of life, but it does not matter.

You feel so frail and your natural aether is in tatters, but it does not matter.

You breathe steadily, relaxing into the grieving arms of your lover, and close your eyes.


	3. firsts, lasts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a first meeting, a final battle. 
> 
> haurchefant pov

The first time you see her, you think she must either be ignorant or incredibly foolish.

A petite woman clad in hard, ivory scales and horns not unlike the dragons you're all-too familiar with, but admittedly far less threatening in appearance. Your instinct assures you she is neither spy nor dravanian, and _probably_ not a heretic, but you have never been one to take that sort of risk. Your position of command was too important; your status too precarious.

You're cautiously welcoming and polite to her as you are with all adventures passing through your base, and find yourself surprised at her courtesy and cool diplomacy. Displaced accent aside, she is well-spoken and takes to discussion with you without a hint of uncertainty. Her voice carries much further than you expected from your initial observations alone, weighed with a lilt of emotion and purpose you don't quite understand. You quickly reassesses the situation and are only then interrupted by the letter, holding grave tidings, that she had been apparently sent to deliver to your hands in the first place. 

You are more shaken than you'd like at the news of your long-time friend formally charged of heresy. You don't doubt Francel's character for a second, but there is little you can do for the man within your own power. Nevertheless, you reach out where you _can_ , inquire where you _must._ The woman introduces herself in a soft afterthought, a single name, far unlike her previous announcement, and as though she were sharing secrets.

Remarkably more interested in this new arrival than you had anticipated, this Lady Ejinn, you think to send her off for an impromptu session with your knights, while also personally testing her mettle.

She wields magic obviously not meant for use in combat, recognizable instead used in the infirmary by your resident chirurgeon, but her movements are fluid and she is quick on her feet. Initially, the conjurer merely gives your knights a difficult time coming within close range of her. You crack an amused grin watching him grow frustrated at her antics, and in turn sloppy. Novice mistakes were often difficult to teach against, and this dragon woman was doing just so with only the practiced ease of a non-combatant, seeking only to avoid a sword to the gut.

You're able to pinpoint the moment your knight loses: when he swings too wide and relinquishes his protective stance and balance, Ejinn in retaliation twirling around and tossing him clear off his feet with a burst of wind magic. He lands, sliding only a little, in a cloud of snow and no worse for wear. However, he seems utterly gobsmacked when the victor pokes the blunt end of her staff teasingly into the chainmail of his chest, no doubt acting a direct mockery of a sword to a throat.

You laugh to yourself, feeling warm for the first time in far too long, and peel away from the wall where you had been watching the match play out. She was far more skilled and readily equipped for a fight than you had expected at first glance, and you very much wonder what good she could accomplish if only sent out to actively aid in the campaign to save your friend.

So, you request as such. Ejinn seems a little more comfortable around you, a little more tenacious in her motivations than when she had first arrived. She doesn't hesitate to rush out into the frigid, endless winter to pursue leads at your behest, and also does not so much as twitch at the notion of later having to take her battle to the dravanians of Stone Vigil.

In the end, the airship she and her allies had sought is recovered from its wreckage, but not after a long game of cat and mouse with the various House representatives stationed in Coerthas. You can sympathize with that particular plight.

You only hear the most _exciting_ news long after you bid her farewell, but not before firmly instilling the trust you grant in her as an ally, much to her visible happiness and relief.

Lady Ejinn used the formerly defunct airship to ride directly into a primal's lair, where she had proceeded to slay the god-like entity with evidently rousing success. According to the reports, this hadn't been the first time she managed such a feat, either. You had made firm allies with a killer of eikons themselves, and your knights-- and mayhap yourself-- were a little starstruck.

Positively giddy you are at the knowledge, you're nevertheless very unfortunately still locked down tight at Camp Dragonhead and sworn to your duties and service for your House, your people. You had your place in a never-ending war, and no doubt Lady Ejinn bore her own role to play in her homeland.

You hoped she would visit, at any rate. The feeling of excitement and interest from her presence had scarce left your chest, holding with it the sensation of open sunlight you had nearly, entirely forgotten.

 

This is the last time you'll ever see her fight, but you aren't aware of this fact yet.

She maneuvers about the battlefield as though Halone herself guides her steps, her magic invigorating her movement to optimal quickness and efficiency as she casts out spells both harmful and helpful in equal measure. Not for a single second do you find yourself pressured to watch her flank, though you naturally do so regardless, as is proper of a knight in the midst of warfare, shielding those unable to do so themselves. Lady Ejinn watches you as well, though you only know this due to experience combating at her side, as her bright eyes are firmly resting on the subject of your combined assault.

You would never have known what an immense blessing witnessing a white mage on the field had been, had you not become close to her. Such magic is strictly regulated, often outright prohibited to your immediate knowledge, and her use of it only proves your unyielding faith in her abilities.

Ejinn is a force of nature in her own right; a force of benevolence, of granted prayer. Her words soothe your wounds and fatigue, renewing your strength and smiting your enemies with keen precision. The song her dance of aether makes is ethereal, beautiful. The magic she spins for you and your allies surges you onward into the thick of the fight against the avenging brood, your heart flooding over with utmost confidence and trust in her.

Even so, you would never forget how fragile she is beyond her skill, beyond her full ability to protect herself. As astonishingly as she moves, Ejinn cannot always be in the right place to defend, and you cannot always abandon your station to be her shield.

The blow to her head needs not be a heavy one, as even the landed scrape of a wyvern talon is enough to hurtle her hard to the ground with a crunch of snow and Fury forbid whatever else--

She gives you neither the chance to call for her in alarm, nor attempt a break to her side. You don't so much as have time to spin your panicked gaze to her, as quickly as your love goes down, she instantly pushes herself upright with a single shove of both arms, snatching her fallen staff from the snow and leaping back into the fray. Blood trickles down her face and contrasts starkly against the light of her scales. Her lips are pulled back into a snarl, more of her blood coating her teeth, her eyes glinting fiercely as she glares down the horde. All in all, a look of sheer anger, near feral.

Just as you think you'll have to pry the enraged au ra from a wyvern corpse, your goddess-in-flesh throws a hand out, swinging her staff in a brisk half-circle, and ignites her surroundings in a lightning flash of re-purposed aether. Her form glows with the radiance of her white magic, hair flowing up around her in a spectacular view that very nearly stuns you in place. The nearby dravanians that had taken to the bait of her fall shriek in agony as their skin and scales sear from their bodies. The smaller of them land in dead heaps at her feet, the others quickly fleeing from range of her attack-- and into the path of others'. 

The fight continues uninhibited, and you won't receive the opportunity to openly admire her until you both are certain danger has passed. Nevertheless, you look at the agitated back-and-forth flicking of her tail when she resumes healing those under worse fire, and count your blessings that she is neither dravanian nor heretic.


	4. history of scales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in reality, she doesn't much associate with dragons
> 
> haurchefant pov

The dragon is fast, powerful. Angry growls rattle in its throat as it shakes its frilled head in your direction, jaws parting and tongue sparking with threats of fire. It closes the distance.

Whether it were for defending the peace or combating dragons themselves, you were not knighted for anything less than you had thoroughly proved.

Your shield slams against the beast's head, throwing it hard to the side with a ringing crack and pained shriek. You successfully expose its throat and lunge, driving your sword deep into the monster's hide.

You blink and exhale and it's not a dragon you've struck the mortal blow, but your Warrior.

Impaled upon the blade, face slack with shock and mouth open in a silent scream, her blood dribbling down her chin and into her clothes and dripping into the snow at your feet. She raises her gaze to you-- _please, no, no_ \-- and attempts to reach out to you with a slow, shaky hand. _This isn't-- I didn't--_

She perishes by your sword and you _scream_.

 

"Maybe it's time for a bit of a history lesson," she suggests that morning after spending the twilight soothing you from the horrors of your nightmare. You hadn't done much talking in the meantime, your throat dry and voice unsteady, but Ejinn filled the silence with various tales of her adventures and reassurances to calm your fears.

Still, you manage: "Oh?" She smiles at you.

"I've told you I come from the race known as the au ra, but not much besides." She strokes your hair, absentmindedly tucks it behind your ear. Your head rests in her lap and you have no intention of moving. "There are very few of us in Eorzea, as we hail from the far east. Personally, I have come across a handful of us in my travels, but we were never particularly drawn to one another."

You listen to her elaboration, your heart slowed into a safe rhythm: "The auri people all share the features of scales, tails, and what's called limbal rings in our eyes. It's- ah- that bit that's sometimes different colored than the rest of the iris. Not always. Some of us don't have the rings at all."

You smile a little, the conflicting colors of Ejinn's irises a familiar and frankly lovely sight. Sometimes you'd catch them reflecting a little, provided the angle of light favored them.

"Our theology states we take after our... creator deities: the Dawn Father and Dusk Mother. They were the original au ra and gave birth to the raen and xaela peoples. The raen, like myself and Lady Yugiri, take after our Dawn Father, our scales bright as the sun." You risk a quick look at Ejinn when she removes her hands from your crown, but then she presses an open palm to your forehead and you instantly relax.

Normally you would fret about the coolness of her skin, but she crooks a smile when you make a satisfied noise at the sensation, and you decide to let it pass this time.

"The raen people integrated themselves fully into far eastern society, in order to preserve their numbers and ensure their safety within foreign lands. They took up the local culture, their language, and made themselves homes and families within the cities' walls." You notice her change from "we" to "them," but are polite enough to not interrupt and question her choice of words prematurely.

"The xaela, descendants of the Dusk Mother, decided with their people to do the opposite. Their scales dark as night, they isolated themselves from other societies, from even their raen cousins, and formed nomadic tribes that live on our ancestral lands, to this day."

Ejinn goes quiet for a moment, so you take the time to digest the given information greedily. So much about the world you were never privileged to know, that Ishgard as a whole cut themselves from to sustain the current status quo. There was so much you wanted to ask, wanted to _learn_ , and the ache of that desire sits heavy in your chest with no sign of waning.

"My father was a xaela adventurer. He was born in the Ejinn tribe, known for their aquatic nature and tendency to live and sustain themselves at rivers. Needless to say, I am a _very_ skilled swimmer." She laughs a little and you return it with a grin.

"I'll have to keep that in mind, then," you respond and her laughter grows. "Seems I won't soon need to worry about death by drowning in a shallow lake bed."

She shakes her head fondly. "I doubt I have the strength to haul _you_ , let alone you and your armor, from any body of water."

You hum in consideration. "Is being so small and utterly precious a common trait of the au ra, or am I incredibly blessed?"

She pinches your nose and you squawk.

"With our women, yes. Our men daresay challenge and surpass the elezen in both height and build. It's a... questionable dimorphism that hasn't been fully explored yet."

You have some additional questions, but considering you're eyeing her warily and shielding your face from further assault, you think they're better put aside for the time being.

"Anyway," she starts with a dramatic raise in pitch, "as I was saying."

"I do apologize, pray continue." She glares at you and you flash another smile.

"As I was saying... my father was an adventurer. He was born within the Ejinn tribe, but left by adulthood to pursue his own path. It was due to this that he was able to meet my mother. A raen woman of a long lineage, though not one of great nobility or prestige. Simply a lot of family."

She looks a little sad suddenly, her eyes half-lidded. You sober with the realization that the remainder of her story is likely not going to be a happy one, and on that you could at the very least relate.

"It was not a conventional relationship, as is usually the case with adventurers. They did not often see one another, as my father's work took him across the country. Nevertheless, it was during one of his visits to my mother's home that... he found me, instead." Ejinn doesn't meet your eyes, choosing to instead stare at the paintings of landscapes decorating the walls.

"My mother died in childbirth, and her family tended to me until my father had returned. Though I had been born raen and would have found a home there, my father decided to take me with him and raise me himself. I inherited the name of his tribe, despite knowing truly nothing of them besides what I had been told." She returns her attention to you and offers you a placating, soft expression. Her fingers travel past your temples and return to gentle strokes through your hair. You're beginning to think the action is equally calming for the both of you.

"I never knew my mother, or what she looked like, but my father told me she was both beautiful and kind. How greatly she looked forward to his visits and how she would decorate her quarters with the gifts he would bring from his travels. Her name was Yuki. It... means snow, and her eyes were pale and bright like winter."

At some point you had reached up and tangled your hand in hers, smoothing your thumb over her knuckles. She sighs a small sound.

"I do have a question, my dear, if you would be so kind as to entertain me." She looks at you curiously, and you continue. "You inherited the name of your father's tribe, correct? Would I be incorrect as to assume that would make Ejinn your _surname_ , then?"

"You are entirely correct," she says simply. "Ejinn is my surname, and my actual name is one that my father had also given to be when I was merely a babe. My mother's family had not named me out of respect to her, who wished for my father to be the one to do so."

She had a reason for not telling you her name, you are keenly aware, but the reasons you could not begin to guess.

"My name is Tiamat." She says it as though it were a sentence, a finality. "I share my name with one of Midgardsormr's brood. One of the great wyrms."

Ah.

"That... does explain quite a lot. I shan't blame you for erring on the side of caution to hide such a thing from Ishgard, as well as myself, and I'm actually quite impressed by your foresight on the matter." And you were. A woman appearing suddenly with features of a dragon, bearing with her the sore indicator of any kind of connection, no matter how genuinely empty, to dragonkind. The risks weighed heavily out of her favor from the start, and she'd seen at least that.

Your Warrior leans down and presses her forehead against yours, careful to not accidentally gouge out your eyes with either horn resting at the sides of her head. Noticing silver, you lift a hand and run your fingertips along one of twin metal bands looped around the gentle twists of bone. These were new.

"I need not detail my reasons for using a different name when out in public, then, but you are welcome to call me whatever you wish when it is only us."

"I am honored by the trust you bequeath me, dear _Tiamat_. Rest assured you will never have cause to question your decision. You are a _savior_ of Ishgard, not its enemy." She squeezes your hand in hers. It's warm.

"There is no one else," she whispers, "that I would dare keep so close. I will never for a single second doubt you, Haurchefant. Of this you have my word."

You decide right then that you'd like to kiss her, so you do. 

The morning has come in full and the sun hangs bright outside your window in greeting. Your love, your blazing star, sits with you on your shared bed, and holds your face in her hands worn from battle, while yours rests at the back of her neck and holds her near.

Bright as the sun itself, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> playing around with the chapter titles bc i'm never satisfied
> 
> i'm on roll


	5. in the dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> two who should have never crossed paths.
> 
> fray pov

"Oh, you've managed to make it all the way here already." 

Your voice has a natural edge, a bitterness, to it. You can hardly restrain yourself from indulging in a slow clap when Haurchefant fully materializes before you, spinning around at the sound of speech. He is far too alert for someone still in the depths of sleep and regards you with open caution, paranoia. You cross your arms and tilt your head.

"Maybe I should be surprised, but I guess it's obvious you've got plenty of experience combating your own darkness. Isn't that right, _Ser Greystone_?" His gaze hardens, cold as ice, and a pleased thrill runs up your spine. How you so _adore_ your lord standing so squared, so warily guarded at your presence. He should very well be.

"Would it be fair to assume you know this place?" He asks you coolly, no doubt practiced in diplomacy from a young age by force, "Since you know me, yet I dare to believe we've ever met."

And _oh_ , at this you laugh. You laugh a harsh, low sound that vibrates through the plate of your armor. How wonderfully blind he is! How naive, and _so_ like him you cannot help the joy that blooms within your breast.

"Perhaps, perhaps not. It doesn't really matter now, if I'm honest. The fact that you and I are able to meet says it all." You move from your spot, taking slow and deliberate steps past Haurchefant. The elezen man watches you, only barely turning his head to be able to see you out of his peripherals. His shoulders sit with tension as though ready to strike if the need arises, but he is nevertheless uncertain in his footing. Hazy from confusion within the confines of his dream.

"And who, pray tell, would you be?" Haurchefant asks. Straight to the point then, as it were. You missed being able to converse like this.

"Remnants of someone. Of something. Of feelings." You answer causes him to scoff quietly in disbelief and you smile beneath your helm. "But that's a piss poor answer, of course. You've never been one for beating around the bush, much like myself. One of many traits you and I share, my dear."

He whirls around to face you and delight thunders in your chest at the blaze of open hostility in his eyes. You _love_ being the subject of such passion, of such intense, genuine emotion. It has never mattered if it were good or bad, as long as it was for _you_. For you, as _yourself_ , and not a figurehead. Not as anything more or different than you have always been.

"What manner of trick is this?" Haurchefant demands, anger seeping generously into his words. You pause your meandering and reposition your body towards him. Two knights locked in a heated standoff, how romantic. "You--"

"Surely you recognize your own mind?" You offer, vaguely gesturing outward with both hands. To his credit, your lord does not lift his stare from you for even a moment. He was never a hesitant sort. "Mayhap I wasn't originally _here_ like this, but I have always been with you. I am only yours, after all."

" _Enough_."

And _by the Twelve themselves,_ if you could only become a bard and sing tales of your lord, your _beloved_ , in this moment. The fire humming just beneath his skin and the righteous willpower that _seethed_ within him and flooded his every vein. You are nearly rendered breathless by it.

It had been so, so long since you had felt such excitement.

"Is ought amiss? I only speak the truth, my lord." Your voice changes and his rage is smothered instantly, his face paling when realization hits. Your skin prickles with the anticipation of a particularly challenging hunt coming to its climax. "I have always been yours. You know this."

"What is--" His voice breaks, throat convulsing in a hard swallow. You look up at him and grin with your teeth. He seems about ready to be sick at the mere sight of you in your true form.

"Your Warrior gave everything to you. She gave every last bit of herself, so that you may live. Is it no wonder, then, that you would find _me_ here as well?" You approach him and put a petite hand on his chest, above where his racing heart lie. Your palm presses down a little to further enjoy the sensation.

His mouth opens in silent protest while the weight of his grief, of his despair, floods the space you share with reckless abandon. You breathe deeply.

"We all have our demons we must face. Our darkness. I watched it consume her and spit her out, where she would rise and dive back in. Again and again in a senseless, _pathetic_ cycle. She lost herself in the prison of her own heart, and I was born in the festering wound resulting from that pain." You trace your fingers along Haurchefant's jaw. He hisses an inhale and closes his mouth sharply, but otherwise doesn't move. How sad. How sweet.

"In easily her first, truly selfish decision, she burned herself hollow to save you. I certainly can't fault her for that, even if it destroyed her in the process, as that was the price she was willing to pay for how much she desired the outcome." Your fingers fall from his face while you greedily admire the blue of his eyes-- so bright, even in such a dark place. 

"Her love and hate. The darkness she locked up in that birdcage of a heart... there is no one else I would share this with," you add in a whisper.

"You aren't her," Haurchefant breathes out in desperation. Denial doesn't suit him, you think fondly. You tuck your head into his collarbone, your hands drifting around his sides and holding at his back so you could more firmly press yourself to him.

"No," you agree against your lord's chest, your eyes falling shut. "But she is me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dark knight is fun and i have no idea what im doing!


	6. weapons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> our respective roles to play and wars to fight.
> 
> estinien pov

"I can fight," she says, as if she weren't already halfway to the void from exhaustion while also mending hers and Iceheart's open wounds. Meanwhile, the boy frets pitifully as usual.

You scoff out a harsh noise and tug your spear from the muscle layers of a slain bandersnatch. This one in particular was your third kill thus far in the last few minutes, actually, not that you intended to keep counting. Dragonkind were the expected threat on your journey, but Dravanian wildlife provided plenty opportunities for death and dismemberment as far as wayward travelers went. And two women and a boy without any kind of combat skill.

"Unless you intend on pummeling the beasts to death with your staff, I suggest you not bother. You'll only become a liability, and we don't have the time." Your voice is rough from exertion, but not even a little from the the runaround of the angered bandersnatches. You were constantly at battle with a force on an infinitely greater scaler than mere animals, after all, and these things would be downright humiliating to be tired against.

Satisfied that the immediate danger to your frail band of misfits has passed, with no other creatures ready to leap at you out of the woodwork again, you make your way back over to them. Iceheart watches you warily, no doubt eyeing the blood delightfully painting your armor a stark crimson, but to your relief she says nothing. The boy is watching his Scion companion with a remarkably unreadable expression. A foreign sort of worry. You don't think too hard on it.

"I can fight," the Warrior repeats louder, rising to her feet. She looks at you then with eyes glowing even beneath the shade cast by the forest's canopy, her face slightly bloodied.

You choose to not respond a second time, meeting her gaze with a solid stare of your own. After a second or two's appraisal, you shrug and gesture back towards the road. The boy frets a little more over Iceheart, who smiles gently at him in reassurance. Rolling your eyes, perpetually safely concealed under your helm, you offer the Warrior one last look before you set off.

She stares into something at a distance, her fingers twitching at her sides. She doesn't look back to her companions, or at you. There is something dark there, you think, that she is amusedly bad at hiding. But this is neither the time nor place to go digging into such an issue, and you would know better than anyone what sort of monster can lurk within one's head, that is best left be.

 

The Warrior is stubborn, steadfast, and outright refuses to stay down. She does not cry out when Nidhogg flings her into a nearby pillar with a heavy sweep of his tail, nor does she shriek when flying debris slices apart her incredibly poorly protected flesh. For as fragile and downright terrible at martial combat she is, the woman makes up for every bit of it with sheer tenacity the likes of which you'd certainly not expected from her upon your initial meeting. It is no wonder, then, that the Alliance would have this one neutral party solve all their problems for them, since her wrath may as well have held the stock of an army. The events on The Steps of Faith had proven that tenfold.

The Eye pulses in your hands, a horrendous reminder of your task that relentlessly tears at the limits of your self-control. It's the only potent enough weapon you have against Nidhogg, despite the evident risks, and you must use it to your utmost advantage. You have to, or the Warrior is going to be little more than paste by the time the vengeful wyrm is done with her, and moves onto you to finish the job and damn the entirety of Ishgard.

The Warrior of Light has to stay standing so you will, and she does. She continues to fight, continues to bleed, to keep _you_ safe in a painfully ironic turn of events. You are the Azure Dragoon, embodiment of vengeance and a thousand years' worth of dragon slaying tradition, and yet your safety is in the hands of a little conjurer with naught her staff and full confidence in herself even as she's tossed about the Aery like a discarded plaything.

Ah, the Fortemps bastard was going to have your head for this. Possibly the boy as well, if his devotion to his comrade was to be put to the test in such a manner. He would have to wait in line for everyone else to get their fill of your blood.

A wave of white magic passes over you like the most welcome of breezes. You breathe a little clearer, blinking rapidly against the sting of sweat in your eyes. The caster of aforementioned magic stands directly ahead of you, facing Nidhogg down, her shoulders heaving from her efforts to tend to your injuries. The healing energy she bathed you in does wonders to restore your endurance and resolve, but grants her no favors in return.

"I can fight." 

Her voice is far louder than you'd ever heard, both sharp and commanding. She looks over her shoulder at you. Her eyes gleam past the blood trickling down her face.

Nidhogg snarls and lunges.

Something in the air changes instantly with a pressurized explosion of cold, but the attack meant to take the both of you out never connects. The air around you grows heavy and, for lack of a better word, _wrong_ , and it's all you can do to not falter in your stance at the sensation squeezing you tight within your armor. You grit your teeth and stare ahead through the smoke and dust.

Nidhogg's jaws clamp uselessly around steel. A sick, twisting magic erupts from the ground and consumes the dragon, biting into his hide and sapping away his aether in a violent, parasitic attack. Roaring a guttural, deafening sound at his failure to kill you both so easily, the wyrm leaps backwards and out of range to rethink his strategy.

When the smog clears enough for you to see the battlefield, you find your Warrior standing before you in a low, defensive stance. She wields a massive blade with both hands, positioning it just so in anticipation of a follow-up attack. Dark energy flows freely over the plate of her armor, bathing both her and her greatsword in an ill light. You taste blood at the back of your throat.

She exhales and raises her weapon. The brief lapse into silence is _deafening_.

Nidhogg roars once more, and so too does she, as she surges ahead to meet him directly.

You resume standing there holding the Eye and otherwise useless in this fight that had just taken an unexpected turn. You're a mere spectator of something equal parts magnificent as it is disturbing, and you aren't entirely sure how to feel about it. Such darkness is... unbecoming of a healer of her caliber, you think. Her personality was far too gentle for it.

Maybe this was what she had been hiding. Or, maybe she hadn't been hiding it at all, but was actually trying to warn you in a very uncreative way. You'd likely never know until you asked her yourself, which you had zero intentions of doing at any point in either of your lifetimes. Such is your way.

Watching her battle, however, you are _very_ glad you shared your allegiance to Ishgard, to eventual peace, and wouldn't be soon be forced to take her on in serious combat.

If Nidhogg couldn't get this absurd woman to stay down, what chance in any hell did you have?


	7. tiamat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> to regret or not, the decision is made.
> 
> wol pov

“I met her, you know. My namessake.”

You stare blearily at the ceiling, still thoroughly exhausted and having been restricted to your bed for the last some odd days. It had been a long haul to Azys Lla, and even longer fight after fight to finally reach the depths of the Allagan island, all to hunt down the Archbishop and Heaven's Ward... and yet somehow the final battle, and subsequent defeat of the circle of knights, had been far less climactic than you'd anticipated. It left you with a cold weight in your stomach and a feeling of particular hollowness beneath your ribs. You were still processing.

“Was that before or after you rode back into Ishgard upon the back of the father of dragons?” Haurchefant asks with amusement in his tone. You grin over at him through your weakness.

“He offered and I wasn't in the position to decline. But I digress: it _was_ in Azys Lla. She was imprisoned in one of the Allag mechanisms, and apparently has been for... five thousand years? That is what Midgardsormr said.” You absentmindedly drum your fingers against the blankets. Haurchefant watches you with an expression of sadness, sympathy, as you continue: “She has been by herself this entire time and _chooses_ to stay there. The Allagans are long gone and she knows this, but even so... she does not desire her own freedom. She could escape at any time, but the suffering caused from her actions in the past is so great that she won't even try.”

You pull your attention away from him and cast it out the window. You can see the distant spires of the city and gray sky for malms.

“I admit my knowledge of the great wyrms is rather lacking,” your knight says softly while he kneads comforting circles into your held wrist, “but to imagine anything-- _anyone_ choosing total isolation for so long...”

“It's quite tragic, isn't it? How much she hates herself.” You answer, something in your voice breaking. You feel Haurchefant pause, his thumb lingering near your pulse point. “She despairs endlessly over being fooled by the Ascians, drowning in the grief over the death of her beloved. She is consumed by guilt and _woe_ , unrelentingly, over the part she played in besmirching his image. The crimes she committed against him, against her own kind. Against everyone.” You don't want to elaborate too greatly out of respect for Tiamat. She had told you her story after you sought her out by her sire's leave, and it was one you could understand all too well, and had no desire to breathe new life into.

You think you would have cried, mourned over this dragon you did not know, had you not been so tired. Your desperate adventures took far too much from you, and your sorry state was not one to endure such conditions in relative safety. You think it had been your blessing of light, and naught else, that had kept you standing just long enough to see the Archbishop, King Thordan, slain. Any longer, and you might have not made it home at all.

You don't think you could handle that idea, not after Haurchefant had barely kept himself together all the while after the events in the Vault. He keeps up a strong facade for you, for your close circle, but the fraying of the edges is visible to those who know where to look.

“I can relate to her, somewhat.” You voice is clear once more, and you exhale steadily and meet Haurchefant's gaze. He forces a swallow and your resolve strengthens in the face of his brittle expression. “But I do not regret my own actions, and I will _never_ regret them. That is, ultimately, what I do not share with Tiamat, nor her plight.” You grip his hand firmly.

He withers a little under your stare and looks down at your clasped hands. You would clutch onto him with both and _make_ him know your feelings if you weren't sure he would protest to your movement, being bedridden as you were.

“I do not regret what I did,” you tell him with certainty, “and Twelve forbid if the events were to ever repeat, I would make the exact same decision, and I would not hesitate.”

You know this isn't what Haurchefant wants to hear, but it's the only thing you can tell him that will have any success at reaching him through the torrent of his own guilt. If he will continue to grieve and blame himself, then you will remind him that you are your own master, and he would not be able to stop you regardless.

“I am not worth--” He tries, but cuts himself off when he catches the way your eyes flash in indignation. It would be an argument you shan't back down from, not ever, and your knight very well knows that. Accepting his inevitable loss should he pursue that line of conversation, he sighs, and leans forward to rest his head gently in the crook of your neck, at your collarbone. You bring up your free hand to stroke his hair back behind his ear, repeating the motions until you are satisfied at the loss of tension in his shoulders.

“I have played my given part in campaigns not of my making, made friends and watched them be taken from me in equal measure. Become a mage of white, only to be thrust into the position of a slayer for none other reason than there was no one else who could fight the battles I could.” Haurchefant squeezes your hand but otherwise doesn't move. You lapse into cautious silence as you consider your words, and sift through the memories of endless wars and trials. Innocents you could not save and monsters you could not kill. “By the time I had met you, I had accepted the role I was given. I had not been the Warrior of Light then, but my tasks were much the same. I was to be the neutral party, a weapon, against the primal threat. Whether or not I gained any renown was never an objective, and I cared not for who used me so long as I could prove to be useful. ... I did not have anything else.”

“You are not a weapon.” Haurchefant nearly hisses against the fabric of your tunic. “You are a person wholly undeserving of such treatment, for all the good you've done-- _continue_ to do. To have such burdens placed upon you, and you alone, twas naught but cruelty.” You placate him with a small sort of embrace, snaking your arm around the back of his neck and drawing him closer, as much as you could.

“But even so,” You press on, “it was due to this that I was able to find _you_ , in the midst of the chaos. The one person who saw me as I had always been, no titles and no achievements in question. Just an adventurer with resounding amounts of luck both good and bad.” You bury your face into his hair. “You provided me with strength, with warmth I didn't know I needed. A home where I had none, not truly, where I was always welcome and not a single person approached me with yet another task of theirs to complete. Where I could at last be myself, horribly dressed for the snow in my robes, in the presence of someone who would never assume I could simply _will_ the cold away with my incredible primal-slaying powers.”

He laughs wetly, but nevertheless joyfully, and you count it as a success overall. You don't think you had the energy in you to talk for much longer, and it was nearly time for a meal and more rest.

“We are each others' suns, perhaps,” Haurchefant suggests lightly. “The cold never feels so bitter while you're present. Tis as though Halone herself blessed me with your company, to garnish what strength I possess to get me through the day.”

You hum a little, feeling drowsy. “And poetics besides?”

Another chuckle. “I merely speak the truth, my dear. You are my light and I am eternally grateful twas I to receive you.”

“And I, you.” You murmur.

Haurchefant sits up and gingerly brushes the bangs from your face, tucking them aside. He smiles tenderly at you, his cheeks a little red and blotchy, but sky-blue eyes bright. You take a moment to appreciate the sensation of love blooming strong in your chest, before you relax into your pillow and sink into a heavy slumber.

**Author's Note:**

> canon divergence is like so: haurchefant still very much takes the spear, but the wol is a trained and very powerful white mage and ain't taking that shit kindly. unfortunately, the use of such massive amounts of white magic without the help of a decent amount of elementals, and in an exhausted pinch no less, basically devastates the wol's physical health and aether stability. she was able to last to the end of the war with the dragons, before ultimately shedding her role as savior and taking residence in Gridania since she was too sickly and weak to continue fighting primals.
> 
> this is an exploration of what might have been, from past, present, to future. the events before and after the vault, featuring my wol.


End file.
